It was raining hard today.
Classes had been suspended due to "localized flooding," but Li Jian suspected it was just another excuse for the school's broken roof to dry out. Either way, he had the apartment to himself — his mom had left early for work, leaving behind an umbrella and a note:
"Don't burn anything. Instant noodles in the cabinet. <3 – Mom"
He read the note. Then he read it again.
"Don't burn anything."
He glanced at the rice cooker. The Vitality Pill trauma was still too fresh.
"Perhaps… noodles are safer," Elder Sheng Tai offered from the phone.
Jian sighed. "You say that like it's a cultivation technique."
"It is. Everything is."
⸻
He boiled water.
He unwrapped the cup noodles with all the reverence of a monk unveiling a sacred relic.
He stirred in the powder, the dried veggies, the oil packet.
Sheng Tai hovered near the stove light — spectral form faint and haloed like a glowing dumpling.
"Observe the swirl. The broth spins like the cosmos. The ingredients settle like stars."
Jian raised an eyebrow. "It's dehydrated corn and fake beef cubes."
"Even illusion is part of the Dao."
He stirred slowly.
Steam rose, fragrant and gentle.
For no reason at all, he exhaled — and let his mind quiet.
⸻
He sat on the kitchen floor with the noodle cup in his lap. The rain pattered gently on the windows. No alarms. No karaoke. Just steam and silence.
"Close your eyes," Grandpa instructed.
He obeyed.
"Breathe with the soup."
"That's… incredibly dumb."
"Yet you are doing it."
He was.
Each breath matched the rise of steam. Each stir mirrored a breath in the lungs of the universe. The scent — salty, warm, vaguely nostalgic — wrapped around him like a cheap, edible memory.
The warmth in the broth began to echo in his hands.
And then… for just a second… the soup glowed.
Very faintly.
Golden, like afternoon light.
⸻
He opened his eyes.
The glow vanished.
But his fingers were still tingling.
He dipped the spoon into the broth. Lifted it. Watched it swirl in lazy spirals.
"This… is the Cooking Qi."
"You're messing with me."
"You stirred with sincerity. You infused it with breath. You created warmth — not just heat."
"I made soup."
"No. You made balance. Harmony in a bowl."
Jian blinked. "Wait, is this… real?"
"The Dao reveals itself where intention and action meet. Whether in jade furnaces… or cup noodles."
He sipped.
It tasted… like comfort.
⸻
After he finished, he washed the cup carefully. Dried the spoon. Wiped the counter.
He moved slower, but not lazily — each movement with care, like resetting the stage after a tiny ceremony.
"Spiritual order begins with mundane order," Sheng Tai said approvingly. "Clean Qi cannot flow through a chaotic domain."
Jian glanced at the sink. "So I can't be enlightened in a messy kitchen?"
"You can, but it'll smell like spoiled onions."
Jian snorted.
And kept scrubbing.
⸻
Later that afternoon, as the rain slowed, Jian sat at the table sketching noodle combinations in a notebook.
• Herbal broth + ginseng tea bag?
• Add raw egg during steep?
• Sliced pear for "cool Qi"?
"You are designing elixirs."
"I'm freestyling noodles."
"Which is…?"
"…Alchemy."
"Indeed."
⸻
His phone buzzed.
📲 [Spirit Cooking App – Trial Version Activated]
🥣 New Skill: Basic Intent-Infusion Cooking (Lv. 1)
⚡ Trait Gained: Taste of Harmony
🍵 Culinary Qi Sensitivity: +5
"…Did I just unlock noodle-based cultivation?"
"The foundation is laid. From soup… sprouts heaven."
⸻
That night, curled up in bed with the sound of light rain and lo-fi (which Sheng Tai was barely tolerating), Jian asked:
"Was this… really cultivation?"
"Yes."
"But it felt too… normal."
"Cultivation is not about lightning bolts and shouting in robes."
"I do like shouting in robes."
"It is about awareness. Even of soup."
"…I still don't believe noodles are sacred."
"And yet… your soul simmered."